Gateway of Seagulls
by Mortimer S
Summary: Oneshot. They are lined up for execution in the sun, and yet they continue to speak in eloquent riddles. Their executioners, good men, watch and wait, but the clouds will not part. The birds of the sea surround them in reproach, and though the good men represent what is right, they cannot help the blooming of doubt within them when it seems nature itself their mission disapproves.


Author's Note: This is not particularly horror of the horrible kind. The rating says it all. Rather I would say it is the horror of a lack of understanding and an ambivalence in the antithesis of the good and the human, and the evil and the monstrous. Nevertheless I hope it can be enjoyed.

* * *

The sky is boiling, churning—hosting gray and white in a spitting exchange but invariably holding back the punishing dawn. But to the sky can be spoken only words of gratefulness, tearful words, for the doubt and the hate are kept at bay by the crushing toxicity of hope that nonetheless drags slender talons through withering hearts.

"I am fain to pay fealty now this day to my lord sun, so be it on my head; disgrace for though I'm forth to join the dead, I feel but in me only fright, dismay."

The voice that speaks is low and rhythmic, bounding like a playful wind, only a poor foot-bound vassal making hesitant entreaty, to those good men who hold their corporeal bodies so captive in hand and chain, by way of deprecation of the self. The good men yet do not waver, and do not make good response. They stand shaded beneath the poor tent, their progress tracked by avian eyes and screeches. There, after a pause, croaks an old man's creaky tones:

"My purpose shameful and my motive vain, still notwithstanding, here I give my plea—his wrath I'm in no state to bear. Look—see—the door is closed by Cloud without his rain. But heareth he my protest truly fain, or only with base sympathy for me? And will you good men me to hear agree though fastened here I am by silver chain?"

The good men shift, but no longer silently, for their clothing rustles and there is the clink of a man with sword half-drawn in nervous shaking hand. "What nonsense do they speak?" A murmur passes the crowd as a wave, unbroken and breaking quiet with the rough word of undetermined source. The good men stand, no longer as the good men but uncertain and in individual solitude each, wondering if their thought is shared.

"Now hearken you good men the word of Cloud, protection now he granteth me this day. My lord's stiff sentinel his true guard proud, remains until the sun my lord does say. But as he patient is shall we stay bowed and make no move for frenzy or large fray. Have you but heaven's judgment heard not loud? You will desist and cease now; this we pray."

The voice has changed, for it is now light and childish, from the pale lips of a pale little boy with flaxen hair stiff and eyes solemn. They are the eyes of a human being. Each good man is unnerved by the silent wish of their gaze.

"Shut up. Shut up, you unnatural scum! You have no right to speak of heaven." One good man steps from the unranked ranks of the good men and gives the boy a harsh kick, sending him to the ground. Those eyes form tears, which flow. Those are the eyes of an affrighted child. The sobs are stark and true, and the bruise is forming through the cloak of tattered rags. Only the eyes can move, the hands are captive still, but there is accusation held everywhere.

"Now see displeasure he shows us and you. Good men, good men," The voice has become a mother's voice, tender and dear. The good men look to the one good man who acted, and are unsettled. "Scent you the roiling of the army, of my lord's great court above? The mighty strike, good men, see you, hear you?"

The good men, they see it, and they hear it. From the sky the cannons fire and indeed white fire does fly across it with thunderous din in its wake, and great screeching as the birds come, the seagulls on the railing like sentinels. The good men are astounded, and they feel fear's seedling taking comfortable root inside them, not threatening their hearts or resolves but planting itself by itself, waiting.

"Do not yourselves so stress good men, I say. My lord sends us a gift that I must dread, and only I for 'tis already said, that I might, in mere moments, him repay."

There sounds the voice that first spoke, a confident gale springing about the gaps between the good men. They move to close their unranked ranks more tightly, but they in their hearts know that men, even good men, can not hold the thin air as their captive, and the seedling grows so that it brushes at their navel for a moment of insecurity.

"Yet, gaze upon it my good men, what he doth send us down from heavens high and dear. Are you not in amazement at the sight? For I confess I've lost at present the veneer that hath once painted me with fear. Look and be awed by day now dark as night!"

The voice strikes in a tempest of fervor. A vague chuckling springs up like a murmur as once more the sky is split and a deafening crash strikes the ears of the good men at the very instant the voice ceases its word. The ugly flower of suspicion begins to bloom inside them, though their unranked ranks allow no one good man to come forth in speech, so that instead they shuffle, their nervousness palpable. And though they hold secure the chain of which lock and key have long broken acquaintance, the presence of their captives grows nearly unbearably oppressive.

"Please don't be threatened by our speech just yet. We truly only pray for safety good. If you will only us to freedom let, then pleased be to fly far away we would." murmurs the voice of a young woman, tone placating. The great slew of cold downpour lulls to a dainty trickle, and the cannons of the sky retreat to their wait once more.

The good men look to the originator of these words and frown out of unison. "You would all leave, forever?" asks a good man. It is suddenly difficult to determine which has spoken, and indeed it seems as if all the good men have spoken at once, with one voice.

"For all eternity I promise this, that we shall nevermore here in this land set foot and shall make leave that you won't miss, else shall our lives be forfeit by our hand."

Such persuasion these good men understand well and doubt has long stirred its vines into the cracks of human vice. But one man says: "Do not believe the wretch for they will kill us, sooner kill us all and make us one with them than keep their promises! Be still, for though they're chained and bound they're not yet done." This one man's voice persuades and does not waver. And as pulling a great weight he returns the other, good men to their sturdy feet of thought. The unranked ranks of the good men stand straight and tall and hold the chain. They will wait, for they have long waited all their lives and some their deaths for this moment. They will wait. They will wait for the sun in the cold and in the rain, beneath their poor tent upon the boat adrift.

"You dare refuse my oath as were it lies? How paltry then must human speeches be if promise its own truthful rule defies? Too swiftly do you my words false decree." the woman's voice cries with indignity. Despite themselves, the good men turn about, as if ashamed, for the face of a young woman angered is an unwelcome face to men, even to good men, or perhaps especially to good men.

The old man's voice cannot help compounding their dismay with disapproval. "My purpose is to me ignoble still, but now I ask you, tell you to me hear, and listen well, for freedom I've forgot. Now merely warning you is what I will, for strike you on your own what you hold dear, and you have drawn already now your lot." The weather strikes them there with a crack of thunder, as if in concordance with this condemnation. The good men are hot with fury, for they sense that he is right. There is the taste of something inevitable about, and it dismays the good men.

They watch the captive figures, all standing quietly in their chained row, all but for their leader, for they are not in unranked ranks but in a motley group with leader, and he is passed out on the sway of the wooden floor. He is not passed out, but is dead. The good men know, however, that he will wake. He will wake again when his fancy is suited, for he is dead but not dead. Undead and unalive.

He is looking out the eyes of the boy, who turns about and stands again though bowed in pain, as his words had made promise. The boy's voice is special though his shape is not; the good men hear some rhythmic difference, perhaps, in the words.

"Now notice you but little and hear not, for all our oaths and pleas you have denied. That resolution, that which you have sought had in your reach been, but now has long died. My lord the sun my sacrifice has bought, but you have lost his love through certain pride." There is a contempt there, that is unsuitable for a small boy's voice. What could boys have to be disdainful of? Lightning forks and thunder resounds overhead, and now even the little annoyance of rain has ceased, leaving the annoyance of the voice quite piquant.

The good men do not like the wall of sound that has surrounded them in the dimness beneath the clouds, for the fiery light is far and brief while the roar and the screech is there, for that moment, perpetually, over even the river's own clamor. Then there is silence, and for a very long few seconds the clouds begin to lighten, to quiet their discontent and thin, the cloud of gulls pulls far to observe, and the good men dare to hope.

"Good men, it seems, that near our end we do come near as well to covetously love our life before we lowly vassals of the sun return to glorious death anew."

The words in the voice of the mother disturb the doubts of the good men, for they wonder at this sudden resignation. They wonder at the state of their own goodness, for when they look at their captives they see the men and women and children standing in their motley group with leader, alive and human, even the leader, who stands bound with elegance. The good men are uncertain, for they stand in their unranked ranks but in solitude, and without convening they cannot come to some consensus.

The leader of their captives sits and dies once more, and how unsettling such a thing is, and the voice of the mother makes itself heard, stronger yet.

"But truly vessels these of little worth are not much more than pawns of flesh and blood; and pleasing is the death of tragic birth, for of replacement here is not a dearth." the voice is not only a voice, but a chilling smile, and the good men cannot help their momentary quiver.

Then the one man steps forth from the good men, and speaks again. "Men do you hear what she's just plainly said? Now it's preposterous to still believe that she wants something other than us dead. Men, do not listen for she cannot leave this boat we built to keep the monster in, remember? Do not lose your good resolve; we will not let this evil monster win, though its beguiling speech might still evolve." With these words finished he steps backward to return to the unranked ranks of the good men.

"And now you will believe our pleas a threat. It's much too late for we are not dead yet!" replies the voice of the young woman. The sky is split by the lightning, and the thunder is close, so very close. The good men are nervous; the fear has long bloomed and borne fruit, and it weighs down from the bottom of their chest, slowly putrefying.

Then one good man pushes up the unranked ranks. He hurries forward in panic and he goes to the dead one, he goes to the leader who is lying dead, dead on the floor against the railing and he takes his handkerchief and he binds the mouth of the dead. The good man is afraid, afraid, terrified—he looks at the sky and it is stormy and he wishes it was not. This good man understands.

"What in God's name are you-?"

"She rhymes! She's rhyming!" the good man screams, and he backs far away as if the dead man will get up at any moment and strangle him with bound arms. It is possible. "Shut them all up!"

"Have you gone mad?" The other good men are bemused and their suppressed fury is bubbling up, to go against their fellow good man. They stop and keep themselves in hesitant check.

"Not mad, not mad. I know I sound like a lunatic. Her rhyme; she's been talking all along, and so have the others, and that was a heroic couplet. She's—they've been speaking in sonnets." explains the good man, his brow glistening. "Look at the sky. That is not natural! It hasn't been natural!"

There falls no rain and there is no lightning more than that one strike. The other good men seem to feel the visceral doubt dragging at them. They wish it is not true, for if it is true they are idiots, they are stupid. But if the one good man is right, then perhaps they are also redeemed, for they stand in unranked ranks.

"That's preposterous." some other good man says, but quietly.

"No, no. Better safe than sorry. Or dead." says another. "Or undead." the first good man amends, in a strange palpable relief. The good men step forth, reformed, and they take their handkerchiefs and reach for their captives so to stop their speech.

"Now though we stand betwixt a mighty flood, it shall be changed anew from grave to hearth." says the voice of the mother lastly before, with great gasp and a great arc of lightning she too is silenced as her fellows of the motley group of captives. The leader comes to sudden life and he leans upon the rail, where the seagulls are gathering. His eyes are smiling and the men are nervous.

Amid the avian screeches there is blessed silence, and the men watch, and they wait, and they hope as the cloud lightens, as the cloud thins, as a great hole begins to open up in the white of the sky so a familiar, blinding brightness may shine through.

The screams begin. They cannot be muffled by the paltry gag of fabric, for they are screams of the soul, of boundless agony and unimaginable torment.

They are his sacrifice to his lord the sun.

The good men, for they are good, cannot bear to watch it, to hear it, to scent it. One man steps further into the shade of their poor tent. He speaks almost in a whisper:

"We have its power strongly kept in bind. But something that's amiss we might yet find." He smiles. The good men are not looking, for they are huddled in their unranked ranks in shame and vindication and they do not understand their own hearts, and so they do not see how the leader of the motley group of captives falls dead before the sun can reach him for a small moment, and then stands once more to face true death. The good men are absorbed in their own shaky hope, for they will no longer be plagued by this horror but for in their dreams. They will no longer be plagued by this monster, this vampire. The screams cease, and they are almost happy, as the wind blows the ashes away.

The man walks forth to the huddle of good men, and he takes one gently by the shoulder. He is leaning in, and the good man is saying, "What are you doing?" But he is silenced by an expert hand and then like a preying beast the man tears into the throat of the good man and lets him fall.

The other good men do not notice for a moment, but in that moment two others of their unranked ranks are taken captive by the power of the leader, who will rebuild his motley group from the ashes. Behind him the dead men rise, standing in grotesque mockery of their living identities.

The good men regain their wits.

"Push them into the sun! Quick." They run at the man, the leader, and he does not protest their scrambling grasp. With one great push he is out from under their poor tent, but then a great screeching cover of white bodies flies above them, and when they are gone even the good men can see, with darkening hope, that the gateway is closing above them and the last rays that escape are too weak to take their lord's tithe.

The dead men are speaking sonnets.


End file.
